


Ask Me Again

by Catchclaw



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fantasizing, First Kiss, Italy, M/M, Masturbation, Palermo, Post-Episode: s03e02 Primavera, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8801755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Fresh from the catacombs, Will retreats to his hotel to escape thoughts of Hannibal. They prove persistent.





	

Palermo isn't what Will expects.

Maybe it's the marble, slick and pitted in the never-ending rain. Maybe it's the people. Everyone's in a hurry. Nobody bothers meeting Will's eye. Or maybe it’s the way that history hovers here, the way she’s drawn her wings around the vault of the sky.

Palermo, Will thinks, is exactly the sort of place where monsters can hide in plain sight.

The rain is heavier now, has shifted from shower to soggy assault. It chases him from one narrow alley to another, then up the stairs to a portico. He can't tell what the building holds--his Italian is too poor to decipher the sign--but it doesn't matter: the doors are sealed, cut across with a chain as thick as his arm.

Will tips his back against the building and watches the water hurl itself at the ground, relentless. For a moment, he wonders if that's what he looks like to God: a wet speck throwing himself down a path that ends in obliteration. His own, at least. Very probably. And perhaps Hannibal's, too.

“What will you do when you find him?” Pazzi had asked.

Once, the answer would have been easy.

 _Wouldn't it_?

Watching the hours ooze by from inside the cage Lecter had sealed him in, built for him, for example. Yes, he’d have known how to answer that, then: _I’ll kill him._ Even from the inside, he’d tried.

_Ask me again._

Eight months ago, in the hospital.

In the hospital, in his bed, the sound of Abigail had been wedged inside him. Not her voice--that had come later, much--but the sound her vein had made as Hannibal opened it to the air.

The first few times Will had been conscious, aware of the people around him, the machines, he hadn't been able to open his eyes. Awake, but not. Aware, but still blind. And there, in those moments between morphine drips, he'd heard her start to die over and over, like some turntable from hell, in stereo: in one ear, the noise she'd made in Minnesota, in her family's kitchen; in the other, the one she'd sung in Baltimore. Another kitchen, another family in ruins at her feet.

The last time he’d heard it, he remembers crying, remembers the ways his tears made his cheeks itch under the oxygen tubes. The way they stung his lips, bitter cracked things that didn't feel like his own.

One of the nurses had been there. Karen with the rough Carolina drawl.

"Hey," she'd said, the words coming to him through a scrim. "Are you hurtin' there, darlin'? I'm sorry. I'm sorry, honey. I'm almost done. Push the drip for you in a second. Hang on for me, ok?"

She was doing something he couldn't understand. The blanket was peeled back to his knees. He was cold, colder where her hands were over his skin. Warm and confident. Steady.

He wanted to tell her, yes. I do hurt. But not because of you.

She touched his forehead. He felt the sheets turn up around his hips, settle carefully on his belly. A deep ache there, new and familiar.

"There now," she said, southern sandpaper. The smell of peppermint. "You should feel it in a minute. Go on back to sleep, honey. Go on.”

The next time he'd woken up, he’d opened his eyes. And he'd heard Abigail's voice, warm and confident. Steady. Instead of the sound of her blood.

Will scrubs at his face. Recoils. He still smells like the catacombs. Like something revered but forgotten, buried under layers of sentiment and obligation.

 _What will you do when you find him_?

"Better question," he says to the wind, to the bored ionic columns shielding him from the storm, "is why am I looking?"

He’d been so sure that Hannibal was there, just around the next corner. Two steps from him, wrapped in shadow. So sure that Hannibal could hear him utter those magic words. _I forgive you_. 

And to his surprise: he’d meant it.

But no mystic gong had sounded, no enchanted door had opened, and now here he was, an hour later, in the middle of a city that made him uneasy, damp from the rain with the scent of the dead clinging to him like a coat of burrs he’ll never be able to shake.

Maybe he was fooling himself. Hannibal had been here, no question, but maybe he was already gone. Why the hell would he stick around, anyway?

 _To make certain I’d seen his broken heart_.

Staying would make no sense. He’d be vulnerable. Especially--

_if he were waiting for me._

And he’d have to know somebody would be on to him, the locals, perhaps, or the BAU, or--

Or--

 _Me_ . _He wants it to be me_.

 _And I do, too_.

For the first time since he’d climbed the steps from the catacombs, waded through the sanctuary, stumbled through the chapel doors to the street, Will feels it, gives into it, that dull sweep of disappointment: he’d been all alone down there, hadn’t he. Whatever sixth sense he’d had about Hannibal being close--it was all total bullshit. A self-deluding fiction.

There was a world, somewhere, in which he’d found Hannibal, lost among the labyrinth of the dead.

Somewhere, he’d said _I forgive you_ and he hadn’t hadn’t heard silence. He’d felt a hand on his shoulder instead.

Somewhere, he’d turned and Hannibal had been there, his palms open and warm on Will’s face.

I’m glad, this Hannibal had said, and that Will had curled into him, drawn by something thicker than gravity, something harder than affection.

I don’t want to talk anymore, that Will had said, tipping his chin to find Hannibal’s mouth. No more talking, all right?

That Hannibal had tasted like sweet wine, like thyme, and the way his lips curved when Will nudged him back, pressed him against the sacred stones, had sent that Will to his knees.

Except that Will isn’t him. That world isn’t his.

He pushes off the wall and charges down the stairs, sweeps straight out into the rain.

Fuck Palermo. Fuck all of it. Let the _polizia_ do their own work. If they want Hannibal so bad, if Hannibal wants to be caught--

_No. He wants you to catch him. Not the same thing._

\--then they’d have to find another bloodhound to do it.

 

________________

 

  
By the time he finds his hotel again, a tumbledown spot off a sidestreet, Will is so cold that it hurts.

The proprietress is at the front desk when he stumbles in and language barrier or no, the expression on her face is universal: _son, you look like hell_.

Will waves a feeble hand. “Forgot my umbrella.”

She shakes her head, the silver crown of her braid. “ _Si dovrebbe prendere più cura di voi stessi_ ,” she says. Whatever that means. Sounds sympathetic, anyway.

“Anyway,” Will says, backing towards the stairs, “sorry. I’ll try not to drip on the carpets.”

In his room, third floor overlooking the street, he strips off by the door and leaves it all there in a heap. Makes a beeline for the bathroom and turns the water up high, as hot as it’ll go. Climbs in and sticks his face under the showerhead until all he can see is the steam.

“I hate this,” he says to the tile. Royal blue edged in gold. “I want to go home.”

 _Really_?

“Have to stop chasing my own tail sometime.”

He sounds a lot more sure than he feels, and hearing that certainty helps. Makes it seem like it’s less of a lie.

Behind his eyes, Hannibal smiles at him, brushes the back of his hand down Will’s cheek. Follows his fingers with his lips, barely there, breathing.

Heat pours down Will’s back, spreads over his hips. For the first time in hours, he’s warm.

Will, Hannibal says in his mind. My dear Will.

His palm on Will’s cock a test, a tease. His lips turning, curving their way over Will’s chin. Like this?

No, Will says. Harder.

He shoves his eyes open, pushes Hannibal’s ghost away. Grabs the soap and puts it to work.

You can’t, he tells himself, his elbows, the back of his neck. You can’t.

He imagines that he’s peeling off Palermo, great gray clouds billowing from his skin--layers of dust, the stench of reverence, of death, the illusion of duty that couldn’t mask it, the real reason he’d come here: without Hannibal, something in him is missing. Not broken or battered. Just gone. In its place, an ache the color of roses that sits in his chest, near his heart.

You can’t, he tells himself, his knees, his hair. No. You can’t.

It’d happened in the hospital a lot, these Lecter-fueled jags of the mind.

He’d dreamed of his teeth on Hannibal’s neck, the weight of his body holding Hannibal still, like a stone. The vistas of his back, spread out under Will’s fingers, the plates shifting, quaking. The sound of Hannibal’s breath.

At first, he’d blamed the morphine. And the trauma. His battered dreams fueled by both. His body, his brain, they hadn’t gotten the message that Hannibal had tried to destroy him--

 _hadn’t he_?

\--yet again, and that any urges once encouraged, once unspooled in the dark, in the lonely passages of his mind, were now perverse. Untenable.

_That didn’t stop you from wanting him before._

In his head, Hannibal rumbles, and Will traces the sound down his chest, chases it over white fabric, starched and neat. In his mind, he’s naked and wet, but Hannibal is all sharp creases, dry, pristine even where Will’s touching him, rubbing the water in the crevices only he can see, that Hannibal only allows him to touch.

Hannibal opens his wing and envelops Will in his body, draws him close, his arm around Will’s shoulders. He makes a fist over Will’s cock, in the little space that is left, and pulls, a long, slow note that echoes over the tiles, in Will’s ears.

Will gives up the soap, gets a hand on himself and follows Hannibal’s lead, the lines that Hannibal’s sketching inside of his head.

You would rush me? Hannibal whispers, velvet scratch. I’d prefer to take my time with you.

Will turns his nails in Hannibal’s hair. Haven’t you taken long enough already?

He crooks his hips, drives into his hand, into Hannibal’s, and Hannibal chuckles, tightens his grip.

What will it be like when you come, Will? I have wondered.

Have you?

Many times.

Will tucks his thumbs in Hannibal’s collar. Why don’t you tell me, then.

Hannibal smiles, so close that Will can taste it. You’ll cry out. That’s certain.

Will I?

Mmmm. Yes, but in the moment just before. It’s the anticipation of pleasure that will make you sing; in the act itself, you’ll be silent. For this--his breath breaks, a crack in the most exquisite stained glass--this when I will kiss you. When I’ll taste you for the first time.

 _Hannibal_.

Yes, Hannibal says, vicious, divine. Yes.

Will reaches for his cock, already has it, folds his hand over Hannibal’s and tempers the rhythm, the pace. Like that, he says. Oh god. Just like that.

Their mouths are moths over a burning candle, flickering and eager; desperate, reluctant, to land. Oh, my dear, Hannibal says. How you shine.

Will’s free hand hits the tile, the stone, the walls of that ancient, dead place. He’s underground now, underwater. Ensconced in Hannibal’s arms.

I miss you, Will says. It’s worse than before. Now that I know you were here. The trails of your smoke are everywhere, Hannibal.

The sound Hannibal makes is beautiful, torn, like violets twisted in thorns. I waited for you, Will. I had no doubt you’d find me.

He leans into Will, the wool of his trousers scratching Will’s thigh. He’s hard, Will can feel it, the line of his cock glorious and fat, and Will clutches the stone, the tile, and unfastens, unzips, draws Hannibal out into the light.

Like this, he says.

Hannibal’s lips part, brandy and sapphire. He’s shaking, the knots of his tie unspooling, the starch in his shirt giving way, unravelling for Will. Because of him.

What’ll it be like when you come, Hannibal? I have wondered.

Hannibal jerks in his hand. Have you?

Many times.

Why don’t you tell me, then.

Some part of you will fight it, Will says.

A whisper. Will I?

Will’s fist shifts up tempo, _allegro_. You won’t want it to end. You enjoy the preparation, sometimes more than its peak.

Hannibal’s face is damp, the front of his trousers. His fingers branch over Will’s shoulder, down his back. His shirt is gone. All his honed corners have given way.

But when you do come, you don’t hold back. He nips at Hannibal’s ear. You won’t with me, will you?

A thumb over his crown, long fingers squeezing his shaft, stroking, begging. The candles in his head start to shiver, the steam of the shower giving way to smoke, the water, the water.

No, Hannibal says. No. Never. Can you promise me the same?

Yes, Will says in an ancient place, in this place, in his mind. Hannibal. Yes.

He comes hard, his back bowing, his hand slipping over the tile. Hannibal finds his mouth, fierce, a kiss like a comet, Will the ground shooting forward to meet it.

The saints around them, the eyes of someone’s honored dead.

The ceiling cracks. The sound of falling stone.

Will, Hannibal says, ragged, the word lost to Will’s tongue. Dearheart. Where have you been?

Will opens his eyes.

He’s leaning against the wall of the shower, out of breath. Sensate. The water’s a steady roar in his ears, a curtain freeing him from the rest of the world, but--

The scrape of footsteps, a noise that settles almost before he can hear.

Someone’s out there.

He leaves the water running and steps out, silent. Wraps himself in a towel and puts his ear to the door. Hears only the sound of his heartbeat.

Nobody knows that he’s here. Nobody. Unless Pazzi followed him, hoping he’d get lucky, that Will would lead him straight to his prey.

Rude, Will thinks in Hannibal’s voice.

His mouth turns and he opens the door.

The lamp by the bed has been switched on. There’s a man at the window, showing his face to the world. Giving Will only his back.

“Forgive me for lurking,” he says, turning. “I didn’t wish to interrupt.”

Somewhere, there’s a world where it’s Pazzi, his cheap suit made worse by the rain. Somewhere, perhaps, there is Jack, no righteousness left, resigned to a life without Bella.

But in this world, Will’s, there is Hannibal, dressed in black leather and an expression that Will’s never seen on him before.

“You heard me,” Will says.

“Yes.” Hannibal stares at him, careful, as if he’s relearning Will’s face. “You found my message.”

“I remembered where to look.”

“You did.” Hannibal’s eyes flick down Will’s body, past his scar. And linger. “Shall I tell you what else I heard?”

The stone, the tile. The eyes of the saints. The water, the water.

“Maybe,” Will says. “On one condition.”

“And what is that?”

“You let me kiss you first.”

Hannibal’s face, like the seasons: startled, amused, a dawn of avarice.

They move at the same time, quick boats from opposite shores, collide in the middle of the sea, the bed.

Hannibal is hot, his body warm sand that stretches beneath Will, abundant. He tastes like a new world.

He cups his hand over Will’s heart. A deep ache there, new and familiar.

“ _Mylimasis_ ,” Hannibal says, his mouth like a brand. “How I’ve missed you.”

_What will you do when you find him?_

_Ask me again._

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers to my lovely ex for the thoughtful beta.


End file.
